


Coping

by hailbabel



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mentions of Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 03:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21385732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailbabel/pseuds/hailbabel
Summary: Nancy comes to call at St. James one morning to find that Isabella is having feelings about Harcourt's death.  She proceeds to help her process in her own Nancy way.
Relationships: Nancy Birch & Isabella Fitzwilliam
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Coping

Nance gave a sharp knock on the door to Isabella’s home at St. James, and wondered briefly why she bothered to knock at all. It was a crisp morning, and the chill air made for a brisk walk from Greek Street. It was early enough that they did not expect culls for some hours, and Fanny would not miss her. Leastways, she hoped she would not be missed. Her morning outings were so regular by now, and Fanny never asked about them, but Nance never deluded herself thinking they were going unnoticed. Perhaps Fan would just think she was going to the market or some such.

Ah, well. She'd tell her eventually.

When Nance was let in, she saw herself to the dining room, where she knew Isabella would be having her breakfast. Cup of tea, crust of bread, uneaten, plate of fruit. Isabella was a creature of habit.

“Good morning, Nancy,” Isabella said, with her usual warmth. But something was off. Her smile wasn’t meeting her eyes, and there was a redness to them that was not the norm.

“Mornin’,” said Nance. She looked at the spread in front of Isabella. Cup of tea, crust of bread, plate of fruit. All of it untouched. Despite the sunlight pouring through the windows, and the cheery smell of fresh coffee, it was an unhappy room. “ ‘Bell, you alright?” Nance had never been one to mince words.

“Of course,” Isabella said. She smiled, but she cast her eyes down.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that? Even if your eyes weren’t bloodshot, you can’t even look at me. Somethin’ vexing ya?” Nance pulled up her usual chair catty-cornered to Isabella, laying her birch down in an empty seat. She leaned forward when Isabella still would not look at her, trying to catch her eyes. She made to reach out and touch her, but thought better of it and abandoned the gesture.

“It’s silly, honestly. Not even worth mentioning.”

“It’s not so silly that you haven’t been crying about it. What’s happened? Tell me who’s been harassing ya, and I’ll give ‘em a good thrashing.” Nance gave a hopeful grin, but it didn’t seem to do any good.

“Harcourt,” Isabella said, finally, her voice small. “I can’t seem to be rid of him.”

“Ah,” Nance said, reaching for the cup that she knew would have been set out for her. Coffee, black. “Can’t shake his ghost?”

Isabella continued to look down, her normally placid expression painful, ashamed. Nancy wanted to reach out to her, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She thought about what words might soothe Isabella, but couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t fall flat. He had been a monster, and was put down in the only way fitting. Still, she didn't think that would comfort Isabella.

Isabella glanced at Nancy briefly, before casting her gaze out the window. The sunlight fell on her face, lighting up her eyes. Somehow, it did not soften the pain that showed there.

“It’s done. He’s dead.” Isabella’s tone was flat and hard.

“Aye,” Nancy said. “But that’s not all, is it?”

For an instant, Isabella's frown deepened. The lines on her face seemed carven, as if in soft wood. But the instant passed, and Isabella tried on a smile instead. "Let's not talk about such things. I've missed you."

Nancy made a low noise in the back of her throat, amused at the obvious dodge of the question. "I was here yestermorn. And the one before that, and the one before that."

Isabella managed a weak chuckle. "You were here, but I still miss you when you're gone." Isabella seemed to forget her woes for a moment, her voice trailing off. She took a sip of tea, stealing a glance at Nancy. The two of them had been having this… whatever it was for a few weeks now. It was all stolen glances and chaste touching. It was not uncommon for Isabella to speak about her feelings, but she also still asked before she kissed Nancy, bless her. This little admission gave Nance a pleasant flutter in her chest.

She sipped her coffee as a distraction and for lack of anything better said, "Fan keeps hinting I must be having a secret affair."

“Are you not?" Isabella said with a quirk of her lips, finally breaking her melancholy storm.

Nance choked on her coffee and uttered an unintelligible sound as she attempted to come up with a response. "Couldn’t be… haven’t been tupped since I got here.." she trailed off lamely.

"Here," Isabella said, "you've got coffee on your clothes."

"Oh, bugger." Nancy dabbed at the stain with a handkerchief offered her by Isabella, trying not to think about Isabella's eyes on her.

Isabella didn't say anything, but the way her eyes moved over Nance--slowly, deliberately taking her time to rove over every inch of her face. Nancy cursed under her breath. She could feel her face growing hotter.

"Alright, sylph. Put your eyeballs back in your head," Nancy muttered, though some part of her, deep down, was enjoying the attention.

~~~

After breakfast, Nance said her goodbyes, promising she would come back in the morning.

“Will I not be seeing you tonight, then?” Isabella sounded disappointed, though she tried to hide it by not meeting Nancy’s gaze.

“Not tonight. But I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” she promised.

Her night visits to St. James were sleepy, and content, often spent sitting by the fire, chatting idly until Isabella would inevitably invite her upstairs. The effort to decline was immense, and getting worse every time. Nance was beginning to wonder why she kept saying no in the first place. Even if she didn't get tupped, she could sleep in what she was sure were very expensive sheets. Nance fancied she'd catch a disappointed look from Isabella, but they both knew the invitation would be declined every time. It was something of a ritual at this point.

Nancy wrestled with this conundrum the entire way home before poking her head into the brothel to announce she was manning the door. There was an answering shout from somewhere in the vicinity of the dining room, and Fanny appeared on the front stoop some time later with a heel of bread.

“How is your illicit affair going, then?” Fanny teased. “You’ve got coffee stains on your clothing. That good, eh?”

Nance gave Fanny a side-ways look and declined to comment. She took the offered bread and chewed, even though she wasn’t hungry. “Dunno what you’re talking about, Fan. An affair implies I’m getting fucked.”

“Not an affair, then?” Fanny leaned against the doorframe, a glint of playfulness in her eyes. “Something more?”

“Oh, go on, girl! Tend to your clucking hens.” Nancy waved Fanny away, taking a good-natured shove with a grin. Fanny closed the door behind her and a muffled shout told Nance that she was gathering the girls, readying them for the day. She was rather fond of the girl. They had bonded in new ways since taking on the shared responsibility of Greek Street.

A familiar feeling of guilt rose up in Nancy’s chest. She did her best to be present for business hours, but was out the door as soon as she could be every evening. Her part was technically done, but she couldn’t help feeling as though she should be doing more.

Nancy tapped her birch cane restlessly. Her thoughts drifted back to Isabella, as they did whenever business was slow. It had only been a handful of weeks since his death. For Nancy, it was a relief, but perhaps it was different for Isabella. Harcourt had been a monster, that much was obvious. But he was still blood. She would have grown up with him--the thought of that alone made Nancy’s teeth itch. What must he have been like as a boy? Did he come out all twisted, or had it been a slow, creeping thing? Are demons born, or are they made?

Nancy was made aware of how she was grinding her teeth when she noticed a plump, wigged fop staring at her.

Come on, Nance, don’t scare this one away.

Even as she thought this, Nance gave a toothy grin. She did so love to scare the culls.

“Don’t fret, inside is where we keep all the soft, sweet ones. Could be yours, for some coin.”

This seemed to soothe him. He flashed a fat purse and Nancy let him pass, tapping her cane on the door frame to signal a waiting cull. A soft, feminine voice answered from within, and she knew the man was in good hands. As soon as the door snapped shut behind him, Nancy let the facade drop again. God, did she hate culls.

Try as she might, Nancy could not keep her mind on business, and she watched the sun’s progress across the sky with growing impatience. She tapped her birch as she thought. Nancy was aware of the horror that Harcourt had wrought upon his sister--his own blood, as if rape wasn’t terrible enough. And yet, her maidenhead wasn’t the only thing he’d stolen from her. Isabella had never married, obviously. But whether that was because of her preferences, or because of what was done to her was never elaborated on. Though, surely there must have been suitors. She was a singularly beautiful woman with no parallel in all of London. What must she have been like in her youth, a woman of prime marrying age?

Nancy let her mind wander a bit over that thought. How youth would soften the lines of Isabella’s face, how it would have lent itself to her already unearthly beauty. As a woman, Isabella was elegant and regal, almost imposingly so. But as a girl? How radiant was her smile? How smooth her alabaster skin? Men would have been falling over themselves to murder each other for just a chance to court her.

But she remained unmarried. Harcourt had sullied her virtue. Did he hold it over her head? Did he tell those suitors how his perfect doll of a sister was tainted on the inside so that he might keep her for himself?

Nancy shivered, scowling. What a horrid thought.

Or perhaps it was Isabella who kept them all at arm’s length, mistakenly thinking herself unfit. She had never voiced the idea to Nancy in so many words, but it was there, lurking in the subtext of the way she spoke about herself at times. Nance often tried to convince herself that she was reading too far into things, but could never quite make herself believe it. This self-deprecation was as ever-present as the shade of Harcourt in everything Isabella was and did. He was rooted inside of her still.

Her preference for women, under the weight of all of that, would have been just a detail. Afterall, what did love have to do with marriage? Even, or perhaps especially, for a noblewoman?

So, he had stolen a husband from her, and with it the chance of a happy home. At least, as happy a home a woman with her preference could have with a man, Nancy thought. But it could have been a relatively normal life, one in which she could have raised her own child, kept her own house, had her own circle of friends. The repercussions of Harcout’s vile deed seemed to ripple outward, covering every aspect of Isabella’s life from that moment on. Even now, dead, he still seemed to hang around like a particularly loathsome ghost.

Well. Nance only knew two good ways to exorcise a demon, and one involved quite a lot of gin. While Nance would never count out the usefulness of gin, perhaps that was better as a back-up plan in this case.

That left only one option.

By the time Nancy had settled on this thought, the small hours of the night were creeping by, and the Wells house--no, the Lambert house--had grown quiet. Nance stalked through the house one last time to make sure all the culls had moved on. The girls were all washing up, or sitting down to a cuppa before sleep. She cast a glance over each of them. For harlots, they all seemed relatively happy. The house was beginning to gain its footing back under its new bawd, and the girls were all starting to see the profits of their hard work. It was not ideal work, but it was providing them a living. Food, shelter, a new dress every now and again. What more could women of low birth really hope for?

Satisfied that no harm would come to the girls tonight, Nance made a cursory go at helping Fanny with the books, from which she was soon dismissed. Nance had run her own house for a long time. She was rather good at keeping her own books, and yet her mind wasn’t on it tonight. Fanny sent her away with a kind, but firm, assertion that perhaps she ought simply get some rest. Bless that girl. She was young yet, but keener than most.

With work behind her, at least for the night, and a firm plan for the morning, Nancy thought she might actually have some restful sleep that night. With that comforting thought, Nance took herself home and straight to bed. She wanted to rise especially early on the morrow.

~~~

Nancy arose the next morning in the gray pre-dawn, her mind already circling restlessly. She dressed quickly before raiding her sparse wardrobe for a particular jacket. It was navy blue with brassy trimming and buttons. It had been a poor investment, part of an outfit for a party she hardly remembered. The breeches that matched hadn’t survived the night, and, if she remembered correctly, the hat had been eaten by a goat. Or was it a sheep? Not that it mattered. She had been meaning to get rid of the jacket for some time. This was as fitting an end for it as anything else. Nance slung the garment over one shoulder, and grabbed her hat and birch on the way out the door. It wasn’t until she was at Fan’s that she realized she had skipped her morning tea.

Nancy let herself into Fanny’s with a grunted greeting to the bleary-eyed girl having tea and a wedge of cheese in the kitchen. The house was otherwise quiet. Everyone else (besides Fanny, perhaps) would still be abed, eyes shut tight against another day of work. She helped herself to a wardrobe she knew to be full of dresses and outfits for events and such. Shoved into one corner was exactly what she was looking for--a blonde, curly wig. It was a little ratty, and more than a little dusty, but it would do.

Nance stuck her head into Fanny’s office to say “good morning”. Fanny was sat at a desk, shuffling coins and bank notes around its surface. This early in the morning on a Sunday, she was probably assessing the budget, deciding what groceries they could afford and who might need a new dress, or what repairs needed to be done to the house. Fanny raised an eyebrow at Nancy and her odd assortment of items.

“This is early, even for you. What’s with the accoutrement? Your affair getting interesting?”

Nancy just rolled her eyes at this.

“I’ll be back in time to make the grocery run, eh?”

“Ah. Well, it can’t be that interesting if you’re planning on being back so soon.”

“Cheeky girl. Wherever do you get it?”

“Must be some terrible influence.”

“Terribly fetching influence, you mean.”

~~~

Anyone else perhaps would have felt a little sheepish about carrying a wig, a rod, and a tatty jacket down St. James Street, but Nancy had other things on her mind. The grey predawn was cool and damp as she approached the familiar doorstep and let herself in as usual. A bleary doorman was shoving his arms into his coat and bustling down the foyer, attempting to look composed. Nance grunted in greeting as she passed on her way to the kitchen. As it was still incredibly early, she didn’t expect Isabella to to be awake, though she stuck her head into the dining room on her way, anyway. A maid looked up as she was setting the table and gave her a confused look, a relish fork poised in one hand. 

Whatever would she need with a relish fork this early in the morning? Nance shook her head and continued on her way. 

In the kitchen, she found an equally sleepy-looking maid and asked her for an empty flour sack.

The kitchen girl blinked at her absently.

“Flour?”

“A flour sack. You have one, yes?”

“D’you want me to cook something with it?”

Nancy blinked. It really must be early. No one could possibly this thick.

“I don’t want you to cook with it, I just want the sack.”

“Erm.” The girl still looked rather confused, as though she needed someone more awake to decide what to do. Granted, Nancy was taking some liberty with Isabella’s kitchen, but she was here all the time! These people knew her.

“I’m not trying to steal it.”

The girl blinked some more, still clearly confused. Eventually, she seemed to give up.

“Yeah. Okay. Ah, let me get that for you.”

When she came back, it was with a full sack of flour that she heaved into Nancy’s arms. This was clearly not what she asked for, but Nancy thanked the girl anyway and left with a grimace.

~~~

“Is this what you’ve been harassing the staff about?” Despite herself, Isabella seemed rather amused.

“Honestly,” Nancy said, rolling her eyes. “They’re a bunch of dolts. Where did you find them? You’d have thought I was asking for the goose that laid the golden egg.”

Isabella looked from Nancy to “Harcourt” in effigy with an amused smirk, awaiting an explanation. Now that they were standing here, Nance did feel a bit foolish. But there was no turning back now, she was committed.

“Is that supposed to be my brother,” Isabella asked.

“I prefer to think of it as the manifestation of a demon.”

Isabella grinned. “And what are we doing with this demon?”

“You are going to give it a good beating.” Nancy gave her rod over to Isabella, who took it in her pale, slender hands. She looked from it to Nancy, no less confused than she was before.

“I’m still not sure I understand,” she said, giving the scarecrow a sidelong look. Nance had taken the flour sack and affixed it to a post in the garden. It should have been empty, but she couldn’t bring herself to dump it out. The effect was a rather pudgey version of Harcourt wearing the jacket and wig she’d brought with her. It wasn’t bad. Not her best work, but not bad.

“That’s alright,” Nancy said. “It’s okay if you don’t understand. Just take a swing.”

Isabella stood looking at the thing for a long moment. She raised the rod with one hand, looking back at Nancy for reassurance. Nance nodded. From years of experience, Nancy knew it to be heavier than it looked, and it drooped slightly in Isabella’s grasp. The woman gave it an experimental swing. The twigs rasped faintly against the scarecrow, but the rod didn’t give much.

“You’ll need to use two hands if you want a good grip.” Nancy adjusted Isabella’s hands on the birch, and then showed her how to stand. “Use your hips when you do it, it will be easier.” That wasn’t the right way, at least for a cull. That was the way to rip and tear, to make someone hurt. To make them bleed.

Isabella lifted the rod again, over one shoulder this time, hips twisting as she reared back. Her whole body swung around with her when she struck again, the flex of her hips following through the oiled twigs. The rod gave a vicious snap as it contacted with Harcourt this time.

“Feels good, eh?”

Isabella looked back at her. Her expression was caught somewhere between amused bewilderment, and something colder. She looked down at the rod, and took it up again. She swung harder this time, the twigs whistling as they cleaved the air. The snap of the rod against Harcourt was loud, and the canvas cloth ripped as the rod clawed it in passing.

“If he was a man, he’d be bleeding now,” Nancy said. But Isabella didn’t stop striking him. She went on, her face turning from cold to contorted, pained, and tears began to well up in her eyes.

“He’d be screaming now. You’ve laid him open,” she continued to narrate dispassionately.

“He was my brother!” Isabella cried out suddenly as the rod began to rip large swaths of shreded of canvas away from the scarecrow. “He was supposed to be my brother!” She was weeping now, her tears spattering the ground where broken twigs and cloth lay.

Her lips were trembling, but her hands were rigid claws up on the rod. Nancy let her continue to weep silently, until Isabella finally turned around to look at her. Her face was red and blotchy, and her fine features were contorted into something terrible.

Softly this time she said, “He was supposed to be my brother. He--all I wanted--why was he--?” She could not get the words out between sobs, but it didn’t matter. Nancy took the rod from her, and Isabella curled inward against her. She tucked her head against Nancy’s shoulder, her own shoulders hunched and shaking.

The grey morning refused to relent, but Nancy thought perhaps it had lightened just a bit. Perhaps the sun was shining a little harder, and the clouds were thinning. She couldn’t be sure, but she was going to tell herself that they were. And perhaps that would be enough.

“Come on, love. Let’s go inside and have a drink.”

Isabella sniffed as she straightened, and looked at Nancy queerly. After a moment, Nancy realized what she had said. She hadn’t meant to, but she supposed it was true. Either way, she wasn’t going to take it back. Instead, she looked down at the rod. She’d have to replace most of the twigs. She hadn’t expected Isabella to do so much damage. She found it a bit amusing, actually.

“I’m sorry,” Isabella said quietly. “I’ve ruined it.”

“ ‘S not ruined,” Nancy said. “All I have to do is replace some bits, rewrap it. It’s not hard to do.” It was almost a comforting thought to know that all she had to do was replace the twigs, and oil them up. It would be good as new. Better than it had been in ages, anyway, as she hadn’t replaced the majority of them in a very long time. If only people could be so resilient.

Isabella looked around at Harcourt’s remains. “We should burn him,” she said. “It’s only right.”

Nancy smirked. “You can’t just throw all that in your fireplace, the smoke mess would blacken your pretty wallpaper.”

“So we’ll take him out to the country,” Isabella said, her eyes brightening. She wiped at her eyes and sniffed again. “We can make a day of it. Tomorrow?”

Nancy paused a moment. She shouldn’t. She couldn’t. She had to mind the house.

“Aye, tomorrow. I’ll come to you in the morning.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

The two of them looked at each other for a long time. And then, “Nancy?”

“Yes, love?” There it was again. She said it more deliberately this time.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”


End file.
